My Not-So-Imaginary Imaginary Friend.

Throughout the entire span of your life the person you will spend the most time with, despite siblings, parents, friendships, careers, marriages, and children is: yourself. To many homebodies and introverts this is great news. For extroverts and social butterflies this is surprising news. And if you're anything like me it's disappointing news as the most exhausting person you spend your time with is: yourself. Because at a very early age you were given an imaginary friend that isn't so imaginary. The two of you grew up together influencing each other's actions and behaviors and making decisions based off of each other. But over time you realized just how out of control this imaginary person could get. How no matter what you did to calm her down or convince her to make rational thoughts she rarely listened. And only when she's sound asleep- unconscious really- are you ever truly at peace.

She first showed up when I was in elementary school. I remember thinking I had plenty of time to finish a book report. She said, "No you don't and if you don't do it right now you will fail." So I rushed to complete the assignment early to ensure I didn't miss the non-existent early deadline that was created in unfounded fear. In middle school she kept me awake at night for hours on end. She would tell me that I couldn't fall asleep because everyone was going to fall asleep before me and (for some unknown reason) that was not ok. She made me fear bedtime and I never attended a sleepover with friends out of an irrational fear of not falling asleep. I remember visiting a sleep specialist in 5th grade who was adamant that a child could not suffer from insomnia. Hold my juice box doc because you're in for a medical treat. In high school she loved to remind me that I wouldn't get into college without straight A's, that my teeth would change back once I took my braces off, that everyone was watching me when I walked by commenting on my weight and that the best way to handle any stress, fear or change in my life was to stop eating. She was incredibly convincing for a 17 year old that was easily influenced and didn't react well to events that changed her life. On the morning of September 11, 2001, I looked at her and said, "You were right about everything." And she immediately took the wheel and dictated what I thought and when I thought it.

Her name is Anxiety. And I truly don't remember a time in my life when she wasn't around. In a world comprised of memes and over-generalizations, the word "anxiety" is thrown around a lot. It's downplayed and it's trivialized. It's said in such a colloquial manner that it's severity and the impact it has on those that have it is lost in the public perception. But the reality of anxiety is that when it's personified is like having a small toddler following you around at all times. The toddler is moody, irrational, demanding, flippant and stressful. This toddler isn't the cute kind that sings silly songs or tells stories. No. This is the toddler that has had the world completely turned inside out because it asked for a purple cup but was given a blue cup. It's the toddler you're peeling off the tile floor of Target because you told her she couldn't buy that toy. Despite all attempts to explain simple logic she refuses to listen. And she is just manipulative enough that she will get you to believe things you would never believe otherwise. She knows it's best to make her move to get what she wants when you're at your wits end. She waits for those moments and seizes those opportunities. And when you're at your weakest she is at her strongest. And trying to keep her in line and make sure she behaves is absolutely exhausting. Just when you think she's in check though, behaving and playing nicely, you realize that she has been quiet too long and her silence means it's just a matter of time until she reveals herself in a monumental way.

Anxiety likes to play the childhood game of telephone. She hears what she wants to hear when spoken to and translates it back the way she thinks it could have been stated. For example:

Friend: "Hey! I got your message but I'm working late tonight. I wish I could get together. Do something fun without me!"

Me: "Oh. Well that sucks. Working late sucks. Not seeing my friend sucks. Let me send her a quick text to say, 'No problem! We'll try again soon!' Then I will just reschedule."

Anxiety: "She doesn't want to see you."

Me: "Say what now?"

Anxiety: "She's not working late. She just doesn't want to see you. Did you see that she didn't use any emojis in her text? And there were only two exclamations points. She's mad at you."

Me: "She's not mad at me. She didn't say she was mad at me. I didn't do anything."

Anxiety: "Yes you did."

Me: "No I didn't and I know what you're trying to do and I won't fall for it. Stop it."

Anxiety: "She's mad at you. Watch. She'll cancel the next time too. Might as well not even ask her for a next time because you'll be told no and that will be embarrassing, right? She's gone."

Me: "I will ask her again. I'm not worried that she'll say no. I don't think I'm worried-- No. You're doing it again. She is not mad at me. She's busy. You're making this up."

Anxiety: "Or am I?"

Me: "Or are you?"

Anxiety: "I win."

And just like that a problem that never existed-- and has no reason to exist-- has come into existence from the inner workings on my mind thanks to my unwanted life long imaginary friend. What a pal. 

How do you explain these conversations that happen in your head to people that you love and care about and that you know love and care about you? How do you tell them that the crippling fear you feel in asking a simple question like, "Are we doing dinner for Thanksgiving?" seems completely irrational to most but is rooted in your personal anxiety driven mantra: On my honor I will try to serve God and my country, to help people at all times, to not be a burden to someone, to not be an inconvenience to someone, to not get in the way, to not set myself up for disappointment, to not be a disappointment, to please everyone and to live by the Anxiety Girl's law. 

Anxiety is the definition of circular reasoning. Simply by her presence I make the things I don't want to happen... happen. I create problems that would never have existed and I develop crises that never would have come to fruition if not for my mind creating them. Let's look at an example, shall we?

Kristen: "I should probably call and see if they want to get together tomorrow. I know they just got back but I don't know if we're getting together or not. I don't want to wait until the last minute."

Anxiety: "If you text them now you'll be bothering them. They're tired and probably don't want to be bothered."

Kristen: "But if I don't ask then I won't know if we're making plans or not. I need to ask them so I know what I'm doing tomorrow."

Anxiety: "Oh, Kristen. You're solo tomorrow. Yeah. You're not going to have plans because they don't want to see you. They mentioned weeks ago that tomorrow may not work. So what makes you think that they changed their mind? Give them their space and time. They'll reach out to you when they want to see you but if you do it then you're bothering them."

Kristen: "I see what you're saying but I feel like I'm making a bigger issue if I just assume rather than ask."

Anxiety: "You'll make an even bigger issue if you ask and bother them. You know you're probably assuming correctly. Don't inconvenience people with your insecurity. It's unsettling."

Kristen: "You're right. If they want to see me they'll reach out. I won't say anything because they don't want to be bothered."

Fast forward... 

Friend: "Hey! Didn't hear from you so I guess we're not getting together and you're busy. We'll try again some other time. Bye!"

(Everyone please welcome to the stage our guest "Problem That Never Needed to be in Existence") 

Kristen: "Wait. What? I didn't say anything because I didn't want to bother them or be a burden. Now they think I didn't want to see them? And now I don't get to see them? When do I see them again now?"

Anxiety: "Not only were you going to be a burden but now you have no plans (and could have) AND they're also mad at you. Great work."

Kristen: "What just happened?"

When you're given your imaginary little toddler so early in life you're given enough therapy over the years to know the signs and symptoms of when she is at her worst. And it's usually when you're not at your best. There are certain triggers that make Anxiety even more brutal than usual. These triggers can take many forms but the one thing they have in common is that they break you down enough to let your guard against Anxiety down just enough that she starts to make sense. That her usual temper tantrum laced antics suddenly don't seem too irrational. You're just exhausted enough to see common sense in her thought process. And it's in these weak moments that you risk it all because you're defenseless against her and the friends she brings along with her when she's ready to really fight.

Her side kicks? Well there's Sensitivity. That's the one she brings that makes sounds louder and lights brighter. Sounds take on an almost deafening tone where even the smallest bird chirp makes you crawl out of your skin with frustration because you can't hear past that one noise. The lights around you are brighter making you want to just close your eyes to shield yourself from the glare. There's Gravity that comes along when Anxiety is in full force. Gravity's only job is to make your heart race and your feet to be unsteady. It does this by making you feel like you were going down a flight of stairs but missed the bottom two. You know that "heart-skips-a-beat-I-almost-face-planted-but-I-think-I'm-ok-but-maybe-not" feeling you get when you miss those steps? Gravity's job is to make sure that you feel that... but continuously. Without a break. And without feeling like your feet are firmly placed back on the ground even though you never actually tripped. There's Claustrophobia ("Claus" for short) which packs a mean punch when brought to the party. When Anxiety invites Claus the whole room starts to close in around you. Physically there is nothing happening and nothing is moving but somehow Claus makes you feel like the walls around you are closing in and it's getting harder to breathe as they get closer and closer to your outstretched arms trying to stop them. And to close out her posse she brings along Anger. And not just any anger but the kind that is inappropriately directed at people that didn't do anything or even worse people who are trying to help. On the sidelines, ready to hop in whenever needed, are Fatigue, Insomnia, and Agitation all stretched out and limber in case their number is called. And off to the side is Anxiety just laughing as her friends make you cringe at noise, fall without taking a step, hold your breath while you feel you can't breathe and lash out at those that care about you because she gains so much joy in your pain. She sees you struggling to explain why you're acting the way you're acting or feeling the way you're feeling and she just smiles. Because despite her existence with you daily in little quirks and annoyances it's the big moments- the "Anxiety Attacks" as she so creates- that are her favorite. The ones that she knows will cause the most harm to you and the ones you love. The ones that make you question what is wrong with you and why you are the way you are.

When you attempt to explain Anxiety to your friends and family it's nearly impossible. How was I-- as a child-- going to tell my family that I deliberately woke them up at night when I couldn't sleep because I had an irrational fear of people falling asleep before me? There is nothing in the history of humanity that says, "If you're the last person in the family to fall asleep you will not live to see 20." Nothing. I never feared for my life but I was terrified. And when those sleep specialists wanted to know what made me so terrified to sleep as an 11 year old kid I didn't have answers from them. I just had the lines on a piece of paper that a machine attached to my head was creating when they said, "And now you're going to go to sleep." How do I explain something that I don't understand myself? At 11 years old I knew I had something that followed me around and made things very difficult but I didn't know it was Anxiety and I didn't know then that it was there for life.

The two of us attempt to coexist. She's always present and she is always ready to jump into action when the opportunity presents itself. One of Anxiety's favorite hobbies is to make sure I never forget. She holds the remote to press play on all the videos in my mind of events that have happened in my lifetime. Rarely does she pick my favorite memories like becoming an aunt or watching the Yankees in the Bronx. No, Anxiety has her own Greatest Hits that she loves to put on repeat. Right about the time my head hits the pillow she hits "play" and I go through the thoughts she thinks I should relive at that particular moment. At first she started simple with videos from failed middle school dances and wardrobe malfunctions. Then she matured with me. And I was kept awake by images of planes into buildings or a car filling with rushing flood waters. I used to be crippled with fear as she would press play over and over again on these videos that I just wanted to stop seeing. And over time I learned how to hit the pause button. Much to Anxiety's disgust I gained that talent. But much to her appreciation, life is always full of moments that can change everything. And just over four and a half months ago I had one of those moments. Anxiety has been incredibly happy and active ever since.

In that time she has made it incredibly difficult for me to go into a public place and not be on edge looking at all doorways and obsessively watching the people inside. She has made me jumpy and antsy. She has brought her squad along with Insomnia and Claus spending all their time with me and Agitation coming by more often than the welcome mat insinuated. What some people would consider "normal" reactions for some are far from "normal" with me. And in an attempt to coexist with Anxiety I realized that in the past few months she has taken over. She pulled a complete Captain Phillips and at some point looked at me and said, "I'm the Captain now." And without fighting it I turned myself over to her. In doing so I have created more of those guest appearances by a "Problem That Never Needed to be in Existence" than I would like to admit. I have hurt friendships and I have hurt family members. As quick as I am to be the first to run to an emergency exit now at the slightest sound I am also quick to jumping to conclusions. With every fiery temper tantrum Anxiety throws I pacify her with "no I think you're right the fact that they're deliberately ignoring me for no apparent reason means they're mad" and "I know this means I am only going to get 3 hours of sleep but I will humor you will going through all the ways that could have gone wrong- do you want it alphabetized too?" When presented with a simple yes or no question most people would say if I go this way it is a "yes" and if I go this way then it is a "no." But with Anxiety at the helm of this hijacked ship my line from A to B is about four lines, a circle, a polygon, 3 loops and one backward arrow.

Rooms seem smaller. Noises seem louder. Colors seem duller. And I'm beyond exhausted trying to pacify her tantrums and irrationality. But all of that pales in comparison when you see what the insecurity that Anxiety drapes you in- like a weighted blanket- is doing to those that you love. To your family and friends that feel like they need to walk on egg shells around you for fear of hurting your feelings or disturbing the peace. I wish there was a way that every morning when I woke up, like a forecast, I could announce to family and friends what the day had in store.

"We're looking at a great day. Very little cloud coverage and plenty of sun. It will be a beautiful day to be outside. Temps look to be in the low 80s and Kristen's Anxiety Scale is coming in at about a 2.1 today. Stellar day. Make things happen y'all." 

"We're looking at another Springtime Day here in Texas folks. Watch out. The sun may be shining but at any time it could go behind a cloud and there could be historic storms. We're looking at temps ranging anywhere from 28 to 110 degrees with astronomical pollen count and Kristen's Anxiety Scale registering at a whopping 9.8, y'all. Yeah, she's going to be impossible today. Grab your umbrella, mittens, sunscreen and steer clear of the brunette wondering if the Barista is mad at her because she took too long to find her debit card in the drive thru." 

I wish that predictive forecast was an option but it's not. And in no way am I writing this post with the intention of condoning any behaviors I might have exhibited or words that may have been exchanged that didn't make sense. Quite the contrary. I'm laying it all out there so you can see my vulnerability and know I want to make a change. That I want to silence Anxiety as much as you want me to "normal." And I write this in hopes that maybe it will help someone else who tries to explain Anxiety to their friends and family but can't find the words to piece together to do it. Take my words. Take my advice.

Take my stories and my reality because there is a reason that I have spent my life side by side with this Not-So-Imaginary Imaginary Friend...  Maybe my ability to personify her will be enough to pacify her. And if not perhaps my words will be enough to make someone else understand that they're not alone... that they're not crazy... and that we're in this thing together.

Or not. You don't have to be in this with me. I don't want to bother you or inconvenience you in any way. You don't have to come along. You do you. Don't be mad. I'm sorry. 

Beauty and the Beast: The Version You've Never Heard.

I was 8 years old when Disney came out with their best animated film to date. The story of an awkward brunette book lover who finds herself with an anger-management candidate Beast who she tries to change into a better person. As a kid I saw no holes in the story and only saw a fairy tale where the nerdy brunette was gifted a castle's library. My expectations for relationships were probably shaped, unhealthily to say the least, by that exchange and their "happily ever after" that followed. But as a bucked tooth brunette with her nose in a book how could I not see a fairy tale amidst the dancing plates and singing teapots?

There's a piece of my past that rarely gets touched. But every October, like clockwork, I'm reminded of it as the purple ribbons are put on and the social media posts flood my news feed. October is cluttered with really important "National Month" titles. We celebrate National Country Music Month, National Potato Month, both National Dessert AND National Cookie Month, and the all-so-important Breast Cancer Awareness Month and Fire Prevention Month. In between the sweets, the good music, the potatoes and checking smoke alarms there is a cause spotlighted in October though that stands out to me every year: National Domestic Violence Awareness Month. Hallmark doesn't make cards that you send out to celebrate that event. But the spotlight is put on those who have a story. And I always chose not to share my story because there are hundreds of thousands of women who have the same tale to tell. Perhaps you could say it's a tale as old as time. 

But recently I have noticed women close to me being put in situations where their loved one- the man they trust, the man I watched them marry, the man I looked in the eye and said, "Never hurt her"- is engaging in behavior that worries me. One friend said, "Well he hit me but I think it was jokingly." Another one said, "I'm fine because he can yell and scream all he wants but he hasn't hit me-yet." There is even one that confessed, "Sometimes it's easier to not say anything and just bear it because if I upset him then I pay for it." And they look at me and they use words like, "strong" and "independent" because I'm single and self-sufficient. But it's not as easy as it looks because that strength and that independence did not exist at one point. And to this day, if I hear the sound of a slamming door or an angry tone, that strength and independence I have been credited with having find a place to hide.

My high school sweetheart basically walked out of a John Hughes film. If we had a disagreement he was under my window with a boombox... in the rain... holding a 10-page poem on the beauty of our relationship before the sun even went down on the feud. Voices were never raised and grudges were rarely held. But we were too young to know that the fairy tale we were living wouldn't last. And when it came to an end after a few years I was devastated. I stayed single for a long time. Until I met a man my senior year of college who taught me that not all relationships are filled with love songs, poetry and forehead kisses. Not all relationships are with a Prince Charming. Sometimes the girl falls for the protagonist... and the story is anything but a fairy tale.

He was older than me by a few years. I had just turned 21 and was finishing my Bachelor's Degree and working on political campaigns. He was my personal trainer as I tried to find a way to drop that inevitable freshman 40 I had gained at school. He was well liked by his peers. He was funny. He had a wall full of medals from body building competitions. And he told me I was beautiful with my brown hair and my nose always in a book on the elliptical machine. For someone who's self esteem had taken a severe blow and was looking for compliments and reaffirmation I was absolutely twitterpaited with this dream come true. For someone looking for a gullible and easily manipulated girl, I was his dream target.

It wasn't immediate. There were "be our guest" moments of romantic dinners and long talks by a fireplace. But those moments lasted just long enough for me to "fall in love" and to begin to think I couldn't be without him. The first time I sensed something was off was when he said he would be coming over one night after I finished work. I didn't see him and I never heard from him. That was so out of character for him that I was beyond worried. When I finally got a hold of him I was taken back by how angry he sounded as I questioned where he had been and why he didn't call. I learned that morning that the art of walking on egg shells had just begun. And it would only get worse.

I either worked too late or was home too much. I spoke to too many men (despite the fact that I was a female working in conservative politics in the South). I was too close to my family (even though they were 1200 miles away). I didn't know how to cook and if I even attempted to it was never good enough. I weighed too much and my clothes didn't look right or I was spending too much time at the gym and dressing provocatively. There was no happy medium. No in between or Green Zone. I remember thinking, "You're an Irish girl from New York, Kristen. You don't have to take this kind of behavior. Stand up for yourself."

And I did. 

I quickly learned that standing up for myself meant I was going to have to explain things by lying to my friends the next day. The long sleeves in the dead heat of summer or the anxious way I jumped every time my phone went off and I was not home. Coffee dates with friends were ended abruptly with a simple, "I have to go" after receiving a text. And trips up North to see my family were put on hold "because I was so busy in Nashville." He told me who I could see... what I could do... and what I should feel. And when I didn't follow those directions I was reminded what the hallway wall felt like against my back or just how hard a body builder could hold onto your wrist and make you walk where he wanted you to walk.

I remember when the day came for my College Graduation. My entire family flew down to attend (the first and only time we were all in Nashville at the same time) and my dear friend from Baton Rouge came up to surprise me. It was a huge weekend filled with congratulation dinners and countless pictures with friends in our caps and gowns. But there was one person who didn't make the photo album. He never came home the night before my graduation. And I thought, "He'll come to the campus for sure." And when I looked up from the main floor of the Curb Event Center and saw my family lined up in a row of seats, Leigh after them and then an empty chair... my heart sank and I realized he wasn't coming. I checked my phone and I didn't have any missed calls. He had known how important the day was and there was no way he would miss it. But he did. And unfortunately later that night, despite my family's wishes to ban him from the restaurant when he walked in, I let him join us for my graduation dinner. His family was already seated next to mine. I couldn't make a scene. And I assumed he obviously had a good explanation for why he missed one of the biggest days of my life.

He didn't. (And I was just glad that the girl he had spent the evening with so he missed the ceremony didn't come to my dinner with him.)

Everything in my body told me to run. And run fast in a completely different direction from him. My family told me to leave him and free myself from such an unhealthy relationship. My friends- what was left of them- told me to choose between him or them. And one by one I watched them walk away. Everything in my body also told me: "This isn't you." And those three words had a different meaning every time I heard them.

You're the daughter of a police officer... This isn't how you were raised.
You went to school to be a District Attorney and help battered women and children... what are you doing?
You wrote your High School Thesis on the "legal inadequacies of prosecuting domestic violence cases"... you know the steps to take to legally get away safely so why are you still here?
You used to be so outspoken and feisty... Where did that girl go?

But every time I would run away, like Belle did from the Beast when he roared angrily at her in the West Wing, I would come face to face with those wolves. And those wolves were my personal demons: The low self esteem. The belief I could never do better than him. The betrayal I felt at leaving him because of everything he had filled my mind with over the years. But unlike Belle the Beast didn't sacrifice his own safety to save me. Rather, he fed off my fear and made me believe I really could not live without him. So I always returned. I was presented with so many ways out but I just didn't have the strength to act upon any of them. So I was a prisoner in my own apartment living in fear of what he would do next. Every single inch of my world became "the West Wing"- a place he banned me from going without his permission, his direction or his supervision. The irony though was my career goal was to work inside the real West Wing and with every day that passed with him that dream faded away.

Growing up my Dad was adamant that I knew how to defend myself. Maybe that made our father/daughter dynamic a little weird but we bonded over self-defense and learning how to protect myself from danger. He would come up from behind, lock my arms and tell me, "Get out of it." And I would be so frustrated thinking, "Dad! I'm busy. Stop.You're crazy." What I didn't realize was that he wasn't crazy. He knew how scary the world was out there. I believe he was more concerned with my walks to class at night or living in my own apartment one day in a big city. I don't think he could have guessed it would be the man I was "in love with" that he would be saving me from.

But he did. 

To this day I can't recall what exactly I yelled from the living room into the kitchen. I know it was sarcastic and I know it was said with every intention to anger him. And I don't know where I got the nerve to even "talk back" to a man I was accustomed to fearing. But my words were heard and then I heard his foot steps. He wasn't walking into the living room... he was running. I found myself with nowhere to go because I was backed into a corner with a couch to my left and an end table in front of me. I couldn't run away and I couldn't hide. He was coming straight towards me and I could hear the expletives getting louder and louder. And then I felt him grab me and I knew of all the times he had grabbed me that this was going to be the time that hurt the most. That he had never been this angry before and I was the source of it. But something in my mind snapped and I said to myself, "I'm done." And as I saw his clenched fist begin to rise I had one arm free and heard my Dad's voice, "Get out of it." I turned, took the base of my hand and threw it directly into his nose. He fell back, letting go of the grip he had on me, and I watched the blood stream down his face. In the time it took him to scream more expletives and grab his nose in pain, I had grabbed Jack Daniels hiding in the other corner, my bag and my keys and ran to my car. I could hear him following behind me but I knew he couldn't catch me this time. Still shaking I got the keys in the ignition and heard him yelling my name from the front steps. "You won't get away with this" was all I could make out as I drove out of the parking lot and got onto the interstate heading East.

It wasn't until I had driven almost 10 hours that I called my parents. I told them that I was coming to visit them and they sounded so excited to make plans to see me. When they asked "when?" I told them in about 12 hours. I was halfway there and I was coming with no suitcase and just my cat (asleep on the floor board of the passenger side). I didn't dare tell them everything that had gone on inside that apartment earlier that day. I just drove the 22 hours to the farmhouse in Vermont and finally felt safe, for the first time in a long time, when I walked through that front door. 

The emotional damage he caused was followed quickly with the financial damage he caused too. Credit cards opened in my name that I had never authorized but were maxed out. He had control over so many things at that point in my life but he no longer had control over me. I moved into a new apartment and he was the first to never know where I called home. I blocked his number and I made sure my new neighbors knew what kind of car he drove, what he looked like and who to call if they ever saw him around our apartment. I tried not to live in fear of him finding me because I knew eventually he would get bored and find something- someone- else to hunt.

As the physical proof of my life with the Beast faded away I reminded myself- like a daily mantra- that I did not make it up and healed bruises did not mean everything was ok again. But in a parallel to when Belle is finally free and believed the Beast had changed, she wanted "to see him." So she looked into the magical mirror and saw that he was in pain and hurting. She missed him. But any and every mirror I looked into I didn't hope to see my Beast. I saw the reflection of the person who he had made to feel like nothing. I didn't want to look in a mirror and see him... I wanted to see me. But not the Kristen I had become at the hands of a monster. I wanted to see the person I could be who found her self-worth again, found her voice, found her confidence and knew how to be independent. I wanted to see the Kristen that didn't sheepishly wait for a man to give her a library but made one for herself.

It took a really long time to meet that reflection one day. And it took having to start from scratch and build myself up piece by piece. But putting on a purple ribbon and telling my story was something I could not see myself doing. I wanted to put that chapter behind me. I wanted a fresh start. And every curve ball that has been thrown at me since I walked away from everything that year: the Beast, my political career and the future I thought I had all planned out... may have resulted in strike outs but not one was down looking. I always swung even though I often missed. Whether it's a Thousand Year Flood, a failed job, a new tumor or a lost relationship... I go through those experiences knowing that I am strong enough to face any of them head on. But it's not the kind of strength you find in a superhero cape or even a weight room floor. It's the kind of strength that you need to find deep within you and bring out on your own when it feels like you're no longer in control. The kind of strength you develop when you've lost everything.

In the years since freeing myself from the grasp of a failed Prince I have seen firsthand women who needed someone to tell them, "Run." And for some reason I was able to show them the way out. Maybe they looked in my eyes and saw themselves. Maybe I was just convincing. Or maybe they had finally hit their "snapped" moment too. But I have never, and will never, use the word "victim" when telling their story or the very few times I have or will share mine. No one who makes it to the other side of abuse, of disaster, of illness or even of war is a "victim." They're a survivor. And somehow that word gets lost in the translation of the story.

It's been years since I've seen his face or heard his voice. He found me a couple of times on social media or on a Channel 5 News clip once when I was doing tornado debris clean up. (Ironically, doing manual labor he always said I was too weak to do). But he has never come close to me again. And I find my strength in knowing that even if he did I would be ok. Because I'm not the person who he made back then. And frankly he can keep that person that he created because the person I turned into on the other side is pretty special. At the end of the Disney movie you see the Beast transform into the Prince and the Castle return to bright colors with all of the animated objects coming back to life. That wasn't so much the case in my version of the tale. I was the one who went through the transformation. I became a new person and with every test of my strength I transformed a little bit more.

So today I stand here unwilling and unable to settle for anything less than someone who doesn't compromise the person that I have become. Someone who doesn't make me question my worth or my value. Someone who treats me kindly and with respect. I know that that's what I deserve now. Because once upon a time I didn't believe I was worth anything. And it's truly bittersweet sweet and strange, finding you can change, and learning you were wrong. 

There Was An Old Woman Who Lived In A Shoe... (Box)

It's become rather routine now. They know me by name. They know that I will stand backwards on the scale because I refuse to know how much I weigh. They know that I'm going to argue with them when they ask me how much coffee I drank that day and I attempt to negotiate and plead my case for what was only one pot. They'll put me in the chair and I will point to the freckle on the inside of my elbow and tell them, "I'm not going to watch. You know I like you. You're a great person. But if you want the blood put the needle to that freckle and let me hum while looking at the wall." Then they'll bandage me up, walk me to the next room and tell me to "take a seat and she'll be right in." Every month like clockwork I walk into that office. Every month like clockwork the doctor tells me I work too much and that my sarcasm won't change her mind on any of the "mandates" she hands down to me. Limit your coffee intake, Kristen. Get more sleep, Kristen. Get more exercise, Kristen. Pretzels are not considered dinner, Kristen. 

But this particular visit she said she wanted to do an extra test. So I was sent down the hall with a piece of paper and put into a gown and propped up on a special table. When the other doctor walked in I immediately went into my, "I'm nervous so I'm going to be completely incapable of not making jokes or speaking sarcastically" mode where a brick wall should be put up behind me and a single microphone placed in my hand for stand up. The tech was a male so there was a female nurse (bouncer, body guard, informant?) standing by the door. The machine was turned on, the screen illuminated and a whole bunch of clicking and clacking on the keyboard began.

Me: "Are you writing an email right now?"

Doc: "No. I'm inputting your information. It asks a lot of questions."

Me: "So do I. The machine is in good company."

Doc: "This is going to be a little cold."

Me: "Then why didn't you warm it up? You knew I was coming. By the way, why am I here exactly?"

Doc: "When someone like you has a history of their body making tumors we want to be incredibly proactive in anything we may see or suspect is present. So today we are just taking a closer look."

Me: "I'm looking at your screen and I only see static. What exactly is that supposed to be? My kidney? Spleen? Lung?"

Doc: "Your uterus."

Me: "Well, I was way off."

Doc: "And it's empty.... Let me get a picture of that here."

And his words hit me harder than I imagined they ever would. My eyes glazed over. 

Doc: "Now let's look here... This is what we wanted to look at closely. That's your right ovary and as you can see it's covered in cysts or fibroids. To be safe though we need to make sure they're not masses. Let's get an image of this one."

Me: "You're all about taking those photos, huh?"

Doc: "Eesh. And the left one. I had hopes for the left one. But I think we can safely say the left one is out of commission. Wow. Let me capture that image too."

Me: "Listen. You're like the reproductive organ paparazzi over there. Stop taking so many photos. What are you saying? Are you saying they both don't work? That they are covered in things they're not supposed to be covered in? What does this mean?"

Doc: "We'll run tests and we will see what these come back as but I'm sure they are cysts or fibroids. But there is a lot of damage." [more clicking and photography]

Me: "Does this mean I can't have children?"

Doc: "From what I see... I don't think that's something you will physically be able to do. But your doctor can talk to you about that more in depth I'm sure. Right now we want to understand these growths. How much caffeine do you have daily?"

Me: "What the hell is up with everyone and my damn coffee intake?"

At this point I felt the tears in my eyes no longer holding back and they fell warmly down my cheeks and onto the paper gown. 

Doc: "I'm sorry to have upset you."

Me: "Don't take it personally. You're a doctor. That's sort of your thing."

As he walked out of the room (taking his female bouncer with him) I swung my legs over the table and put my face in my hands. I kept asking myself, "Why are you crying?" I tried to reason with myself that I knew this was a possibility for a quite a while. Was it the way he said it? Was it the fact that my routine monthly blood tests somehow turned into something more? And then the realization hit me: He had taken so many photos during the ultrasound and I wasn't walking out holding one. Every time I had seen that machine in use prior it was with someone that was expecting a baby. And when the session was over there would be printed images passed around of little fingers and little toes and smooshed baby faces. Not only was I walking out with just what I walked in with but the words "it's empty" just echoed in my head. Obviously I wasn't expecting him to find a baby but the finality of his words and his tone hit me hard.

I got dressed. I looked in the mirror to make sure it didn't look like I had been crying too much. I said, "Pull yourself together O'Hare because you're better than having a comeapart in an exam room." And I heard my phone go off with a text message. I grabbed my bag, my phones, opened the door, walked down the hall, put my sunglasses on, said "see you in a month ladies" to the receptionist desk and walked into the corridor. I looked down at my phone and saw it was from my sister. And when I opened it there was a photo of my youngest nephew with a huge smile on his face covered in baby food. The text stated his love for carrots (the vegetable I loathe) and I frantically started texting back explaining the horrors of carrots and how she shouldn't subject him to such torture. And then I told her "thank you for the sweet photo by the way- I needed that smile." To which she responded with a video of my older nephew singing a Sesame Street song in his pajamas. I laughed with tears still in my eyes from the exam room. But the tears were from the sweetness in those boys and those messages coming in at the perfect time.

I'm 33 and not married. I work around the clock and I live in a shoe box apartment with two cats. Even healthy and capable, the reality of having children at this stage in my life would be impossible. But being a mom is something that I have wanted to be since I was given my first Cabbage Patch doll and told I was responsible for taking care of her. I loved every minute of it. And I looked forward to the day when my child wouldn't grow in a garden and then be delivered to me in a box. I know it's not my "biological clock" ticking away which everyone talks about kicking in when women want children and feel they're running out of time. No. Wanting children but being told you can't have them is a different kind of "ticking" inside you. It's like an emotional time bomb you don't know when it's going to go off but you know the pin has been pulled.

Maybe it will go off when you're standing with a bunch of moms at a kid's birthday party and as the little ones run around your feet the mom's starting having the "are you done?" talk. That awkward talk where they start discussing whether they want more children after their second or third or should they try for a fourth? And they debate amongst themselves which age is the best and how far siblings should be spaced apart and how if they knew what they were getting into with multiples they may have stopped at one. Their eyes glance to me and I reply, "Nope. I've got nothing. I'm just here for the cake."

Maybe when you're checking out at the grocery store on Mother's Day and the cashier says, "Happy Mother's Day, ma'am" and you say, "thank you." And it stings and it hurts but you know they were just being polite and meant no harm whatsoever.

Maybe when someone at work asks why you don't have kids and you feel like you need to explain yourself and justify the reasons why you're almost 34 and not picking out day cares or waiting in the carpool pickup line.

Maybe on April Fool's Day when the fake pregnancy announcements are posted and everyone laughs at the humor behind the flippant remarks because what is simply a joke to someone is an unattainable dream to someone else.

And yet... all of these things have happened. And they happen repeatedly. But I have never felt like I was going to fall apart. I have never felt that rush of anger, resentment, or even the "why me?" feeling take over. There are times when I have said to myself, "Kristen, this isn't fair" and like clockwork I answer myself back with, "It is what it is." And honestly the only time I truly resent those people that can have children are when they do and they don't love them. But it doesn't take infertility to instill that anger within someone. Any human with a beating heart would feel the same way.

Now that I'm in my thirties and my friends are having children on purpose I come face to face with baby showers and birth announcements all the time. I wait for that overwhelming rush of "why not me?" but it doesn't come. I expect a twinge of jealousy but it's not there. And I think I'm starting to realize why...

Perhaps it was determined long ago that having children wasn't in the cards for me. Perhaps I was dealt that hand to begin with and in return I was given the kind of heart that loves children unconditionally. A woman that can be a biological aunt, an "aunt by affiliation," a babysitter, a nanny, a mentor and a humanitarian. A woman who's heart can love a child like it's her own because the chance to love one that she grows for 9 months isn't an option.

Because of this heart... there are some kids in Nashville that I walked around the house with on the nights when it was Colic-1 and Tin-Tin- 0. I watched one of them take their first steps... and he will soon start driving. I watched one give up all her pacies... and she will soon lose her braces. And all of the times I spent with their friends and their cousins are precious memories when I was able to open my heart and love a child like it was my own. There's a family in Nashville that taught me what 2am feedings and 3pm carpools are like and my heart is always going to be grateful for the opportunity to watch these children (and all the children that came with them) grow up.

Because of this heart... there is a niece in New England with a Boston accent and blonde hair. She looks nothing like me but she is starting to love women's history and she has quite the sweet tooth. She loves to read and she is vivacious, outgoing and has a beautiful soul. She was the first child that shared any blood relation to me and I remember holding her for the first time in the hospital thinking, "A little bit of me is in this little tiny human." My heart was full. She was born just a month after the Flood that changed my life. She brought laughter and happiness into a time that was uncertain and chaotic. I don't see her nearly as much as I would like to but when I do I know how blessed I am to be her Tin-Tin.


And just over two years ago this heart was introduced to a new title and a new way to love unconditionally when I became "Auntie" but also "Godmother" to a sweet little boy with the biggest cheeks. The word "mother" was not lost on me then but in light of the news from the doctor recently I cherish the title more so now than I did just a couple of years ago. I remember my nephew being placed into my arms for the first time. My heart was so overcome because this was the little baby I had seen in every ultrasound image at

every appointment I followed my sister to. This is the little boy that made me reconsider moving back to Nashville because being a Godmother was an opportunity I couldn't give up. And when his brother was born I remember asking his mom if it was possible to love humans that aren't yours as much as I loved those boys. Every Sunday I do everything I can to make sure there is a way for me to see them because my heart is better for loving them.


And this heart... this heart that somehow must have known a long time ago that it would not have the chance to be a "mommy" watches in awe as her best friends from childhood and college have beautiful, funny, smart and loving little girls and boys. One is already going to school in Washington... and one was born just a couple of days ago in Indiana. There are beautiful little girls in California and a sweet little Irish boy in Boston. And their mom's and dad's let me into their lives to love these children and share in the special moments they celebrate together. And for that I am grateful.

And then there is my heart every day. The heart that is driven by empathy and wants to save the world one person at a time. It's a lofty goal but I have been blessed with the opportunity to help others. I am able to provide help and hope- on the good days- and I always find that I am drawn to the heart of a child. I don't have much to give but I will give whatever I can when needed. It's almost as if my heart has made extra room for other's children to fill the void that would inevitably be there because I won't have my own. And if that's how God wants to use this heart then I will happily give that over to those who need love the most.

Every morning I pour the ONE cup of coffee that I have been restricted to and I take the medication that is supposed to treat some complications I have during a six-month treatment plan. The irony of this daily dose is the awful morning sickness it causes and the blatant reminder not to get pregnant while taking it. I pour my coffee and open a pill with a warning that obviously doesn't pertain to me and never will. I feel like I should be angry at the daily reminder of the future I am being denied. I feel like I should be jealous of those that have what I really want. But the reality is the only thing that I will ever "be due" with is the rent. And yet I have a life filled with children that I love unconditionally and make my life more whole than I could do on my own. And while I didn't walk out of that doctor's office with an ultrasound picture in my hand... I walked out with two photos sent to me on my phone- at the perfect time- with the sweetest smiles and a lot of love.

I believe the old rhyme is "There was an old woman who lived in a shoe, She had so many children, and loved them all, too." But that was 1790 and this is now. Now she lives in a tiny shoe box apartment and although has no children of her own has a life filled with so many children she adores. She may not have given them life but they fill her life with love and purpose. "And she can only have one cup of coffee, too." 

Little Miss 4.0 Fails a Test

I remember in elementary school the teacher's having to stop putting the assignments for the week on the blackboard because I would complete all of them in one evening. I remember in middle school being told to "stop taking school so seriously" because I was making the other kids uncomfortable. That was also the time I was told that I couldn't bring a book onto the playground anymore because it made me stand out as anti-social. I remember registering for classes in high school and only "accelerated" and "AP" were allowed on my schedule. College and Graduate school were no different. If there was an assignment I was going to complete it on time. And I was going to complete it with the highest grade I could get because failure wasn't an option. If extra studying, tutoring, sacrifices to the educational gods, or moving into the campus library were necessary measures then that was what I was going to have to do. Grab the candles and the robes and let the ritual begin. Anything below an "A" was unacceptable. Not to my parents or my teachers. But to myself. I was the fat kid in class with head gear, glasses and a haircut that was anything but "The Rachel" which I distinctly remember asking for at the salon. (I walked out with an uneven mullet.) I didn't have many things that I was confident in but being "the smart kid" in the class was something I could always push myself towards. And just pray the hair grew back and the teeth somehow got their act together or at least that gap together. 

As I grew up I took this mentality with me into other areas of my life. Work? I was the hardest working dishwasher the summer of 2001 at that little lake's diner (first job) and then continued throughout all the jobs that came afterwards whether a nanny, a political speech writer, a receptionist, an archivist or a sleep deprived disaster responder. I wanted to make sure that I was fully prepared, fully knowledgeable, and fully dedicated to giving the best I had. And when it came to relationships, I couldn't see any other way to approach one. Study. Prepare. Study. Present. Make corrections based on feedback and peer critique. Study. Prepare. And take the test. It's a tried and true (and rather well-tested) formula that has always served me well. Until now.

When it comes to relationships there are no assigned books to read, no papers to draft, no cram sessions with a study group to hold and no mid-term progress assessment. The studying belongs solely to the person entering the relationship. The preparation is their personal responsibility. It's a lot of work... and work that is not always easy to complete. But when you do complete it then you know you're ready for the test. And if you studied hard enough and put the work in then you should pass it without a problem.

That is... until you fail. Without comments in the margin, a breakdown of what went wrong, or even a "thanks for trying." You just fail. 

After the Summer of 2016 I knew that I was in no position to date again for a long time. I needed to take the time and energy necessary to heal. As I began a new career and made new friends I began to piece together the broken parts of myself. And it wasn't just sitting behind this computer screen writing these entries. I learned how to be okay with being alone again. I learned how to fall asleep without feeling heartbroken that the other side of the bed was empty. It took a few tries but I practiced enough to be able to sit in a coffee shop without being hidden behind a stack of books and just drank coffee with myself- no barriers or buffers. I took road trips to Nashville to remind me of who I have grown to be and how much I have changed since I was 18. I cried to sad country songs and I laughed with best friends on the phone. I started over and studied myself: who I was and what I wanted. My heart was tired and it needed rest. So while it rested I took the time to do whatever I could to make myself stronger. Because, if and when the time allowed for it, I wanted to be prepared and ready to love again. It wouldn't be fair to whomever was to come along that I didn't do my part to be the best me.

I remember being surprised when he asked for a second date because the first one had ended with me handing a complete stranger at the table next to us my business card and walking out of the restaurant because I didn't want to hear about a Hurricane. I remember the second and third date went well. This was gaining momentum and I was excited. I reminded myself with each date to ask before getting out of my car, "Are you ready for this? Are you prepared? Because if you're not then this isn't fair to him. Have you done what you need to do to be okay?" And each time I shut the car door I said, "I'm okay. But..." And there was that "but" at the end of each heart to heart I had with myself and I knew what I had to do.

I needed to close the book I still had open and I needed to stop taking notes in the margins of what I could have done better or where I went wrong. That book was my ex. So I met him for dinner and we talked for a really long time. So many questions were answered and misconceptions clarified. I walked away from that dinner feeling stronger and more ready then ever to move forward in this new situation I had found myself in. I had done all my homework. I had studied. I had taken the time to rest and reset. I put in the extra work and did everything and more to ensure that I could take the next step. My studying was complete. My hard work had paid off. I was ready.

But then I was sitting on the couch next to him, my head turned to the side in confusion as I asked, "If you don't want to be with me then why are you with me?" And his answer, without making any eye contact, was simply, "It was a test." And it was a test I could not pass. 

That's not to say I didn't try to pass. I truly did. I probably tried too many times and put in too much effort but it's the only way I know. Giving 100% and then some is the only way I approach things. And no matter what I did and no matter how hard I tried the test was impossible. It wasn't my past that was holding me back from moving on. It was his. And that hurt because it was as if I was paying the price in a group project where only one person had come prepared and had done all the work.

It didn't matter how much time I had taken to heal. It didn't matter how much effort I put into being a better person and a stronger person. It didn't matter what measures I took to prepare myself for a relationship with another person. He had set out to date me "as a test." A test that would determine whether or not he was over his previous relationship. A test that would show him whether or not he was ready to be with someone else. I thought the test of a relationship would be whether or not we could make it work together. I didn't know there was a prerequisite assessment that determined if I was even eligible to participate. It didn't matter how much time I had spent studying and preparing. I was going to fail an impossible test that was never meant for me to pass.

And I think that's the hardest part of the finality of this exam's grade: there is no retake and there is no comment section. It was simply a pass or fail. No well worded essay, no well defended data based question, and no extra credit would improve my grade enough for me to change that "F" to a "P." And the over-achiever in me... the girl that was the teacher's pet throughout school... the girl who never met a pop quiz she wasn't ready to take... struggled to understand how she could fail a test she didn't even know she had to take.

So last week I stood with my toes in the sand looking out at the Pacific Ocean. Behind me was my best friend of 20 years. In front of me were miles of blue waves and Malibu mountains. I wanted to think about anything other than the test I had failed a couple of days prior. I wanted to focus on the beauty of the moment or the tranquility of my surroundings. Instead I wondered where I could have tried harder or what I could have done better. I wanted to know what I had done wrong.

And then I was hit by a huge wave. A wave I didn't think would reach as far as it did or crash into me as hard as it did. And who knew the ocean was that cold? I was so unprepared for the freezing snap back to reality that all I could do was laugh. Really, really laugh. And in laughing find the irony in the fact that I was trying so hard again to study/analyze the past that I was oblivious to present. Until it basically knocked me over.


It doesn't always matter how prepared you are for something. You are only responsible for your part. You can only do so much on your own. The other person needs to put in their time and their effort. They may not approach it the same way you did but at least you can walk away knowing you held up your end of the deal. You did your best and in any other situation would have walked away with a passing grade.

Little Miss 4.0 may have failed a test but in taking it she learned was no longer Little Miss Afraid or Little Miss Independent. And perhaps in failing she learned more than she could have by continuing to study and never pulling up a seat to take the exam. And it must be noted that it was his test she failed... not her own. In the test of "learning to live again," Little Miss 4.0 gave everything she had... and she laughed her way through the extra credit. 

When Choosing Between Two Men... Choose Wisely.

I sat in my car watching Tanaka throw a flawless 4th inning on a tiny phone screen in front of the restaurant. I was 20 minutes early based on the fear that Monday rush hour Dallas traffic would overwhelm me and I would find myself lost and going the wrong way down a one way street. I didn't expect the only spot to be open on a busy street would be the one directly in front of the place I was supposed to be at for 7 o'clock. So I watched the game and felt the butterflies grow in strength.

Then my second phone rang. A multi-family fire in Dallas with possible need for mutual aid from my team. "Don't cancel, Kristen... .Don't cancel, Kristen." I kept saying that in my mind over and over as I tried to come up with a solution to keeping me in the restaurant and out of the field. And out of the corner of my eye I saw him walk towards the front door and politely hold it open for the people walking in before him. I got my coworker off the phone telling him that I definitely owed him one but to please give me until at least 10 o'clock (but if he really needed me to call and I would be there in a heartbeat). I turned the game to just a play by play. Grabbed my keys. Looked in the rear view mirror. Took a deep breath. And said, "Here we go." 

I didn't want to make it look like I got there so early but I was mildly excited he was early as well. He didn't see me and sent a text, "In a plaid shirt by the entrance in case you forgot what I look like." I smiled and thought, "I don't think anyone in this place missed you walk through that door." I  affectionately referred to him as "The Greek" because pronouncing his name was more difficult for this girl with a mild speech impediment than it should have been. But he was funny. He was incredibly well-read and educated (he asked to know more details about my thesis and it wasn't so he could fall asleep). He was successful and sarcastic. And as I quickly texted under the table "NO EMERGENCY 10-13 TEXT NEEDED!!! ALL GOOD!!" to my sister (saving me from becoming a skin suit) I smiled thinking, "I'm on a good date?!"

It was right after ordering that he turned to me and said, "So what are your thoughts on the storm coming towards Texas?" I laughed and said, "I have been told by many people who have lived here their entire life that this may be nothing. That it could fizzle out in the Gulf and we are making a big deal out of nothing. We'll obviously know more Thursday but my fingers are crossed that everyone is right. I know tornadoes and floods. But I don't know hurricanes." I remember him saying, "If this is a big one you're going to have your hands full." And I looked at him across the table, the drinks being put down in front of us at that moment and said, "I'm feeling pretty lucky right about now."

Wrong. Few people have actually ever been that wrong. 

When the date was over and that awkward saying "goodbye" moment came around he asked for a second date. The Greek looked like he walked off of a movie set and was so incredibly out of my league that I kept looking over my shoulder to see if cameras would come around the corner to reveal some sick reality show stunt. This was my first date in years. And it was actually successful. Of course I would agree to a second date. So we made plans to figure out when we would meet up later that weekend and said goodbye. I had a really good feeling about everything at that moment. Things may have been falling into place. I may have finally found myself on a path to good things where my life was making sense and the decisions I had made in the past were playing out as I had hoped they would. Everything was going to be okay for once.

Wrong. How could I be more wrong than I was just a few hours after breaking a record in wrongness? 

The storm kept growing and meteorologists were dumbfounded at the size and strength of this new beast heading straight for the Texas Coast. It had a name now too: Harvey. Historic damage and destruction was predicted and the rain totals appeared to be typographical errors. On Wednesday my second phone rang and I immediately answered it awaiting the news on the other end with bated breath, "Kristen, you're officially assigned and deployed. Let's go." I texted The Greek and said, "Well it looks like this storm isn't a joke. Someone has been officially called up to respond." He told me he thought it was just a matter of time before I would get that call and we talked about what I would be doing... and how long I would be doing it. And the answer to that last question was, "I really don't know but our plans for this weekend are probably going to be hurricane-checked." I laughed at my own wittiness and looking back with hindsight I find amusement in that comment still. But for different reasons now.

I walked out of my apartment door that morning and it would be a long time until I walked back into it. I lived inside an Emergency Operations Center working for 36 hours at a time and then sleeping for 3 hours. The news coming from the South on the huge televisions throughout the room was growing worse with every commercial break. In terms of safety: I was in no danger. In terms of what was to come: no one had any idea. People were trapped. Shelters were flooding and there weren't enough places to put those who needed help. So the planes starting taking off and heading to us. Plane after plane landed and brought evacuees into Dallas and Fort Worth. Those that headed to Dallas I would never see. Those that got on the bus to Fort Worth would become a part of my life for the foreseeable future... and then some.

My phone didn't go off hourly... it went off by the minute. And in the mix or calls and messages from volunteers, first responders, emergency managers, my supervisors and teammates there was a text or two daily from The Greek asking me how things were going, how I was holding up and checking to make sure I was getting sleep and at least eating a meal or two.

But I didn't answer those texts. They moved down in succession behind ones asking "how many blankets are you requesting?" and "how many people do you have right this minute?" or "what's the ETA?" or "I need you to do this 5 minutes ago." And the more texts and calls that came into my phone the further down the totem poll The Greek found himself. I had been entrusted with a position of leadership that I had never had before in my career. If I could answer all the questions related to Harvey and the action items needing my immediate attention for him I could reach out to The Greek afterwards. I could text him after that operational briefing meeting.... after I finished that request in the database... after I called the logistics coordinator back... after that volunteer spoke to me about an incident during their shift... after I tried to get a 30 minute nap on the floor of the back room.

But there was never an "after." There was always a "next." And my focus wasn't on my future with The Greek. My focus was on my present with Harvey. And he consumed every minute of the day. In reality, for the duration of my deployment with Harvey we spent 43,200 minutes together. Or 2,592,000 seconds together. We were inseparable for 720 hours... 30 days... 4 weeks and 2 days... or 8.22% of all of 2017. There was only room for one man in my life and Harvey owned that role more than I ever thought he could.

And he was one of the most unhealthy relationships I have ever been in. I gave him absolutely everything I had to give and then dug even deeper to find the reserve I knew I had somewhere so he could have that too. We had our moments where I felt appreciated and accepted. We had our moments where I felt like I knew what I was doing and what I was doing was good. We had our moments where I blindly followed him where he told me to go without questioning why or if it was a good idea. They always say when you're in a relationship that the two parties should compliment each other. It should be a 50/50 split. And no outside force should influence your bond. Harvey and I did not compliment each other. The split was 90/10 and that was on a good day. And every single outside force that could influence our relationship found it's way in... and stayed there.

I had been presented with a challenge: The Greek and The Storm. My past was riddled with broken relationships and dead ends that I didn't see coming. My batting average for relationships wasn't even minor league. I was sitting in the stands with the rest of the spectators just hoping for a fly ball. So when given the chance to be with another man who I thought I could at least take control of the future with and have some say in the course of events... I chose that one. The Greek was a first date that seemed improbable and too good to be true. Harvey was a formidable force that I was entrusted with somehow calming and a challenge I wanted to accept.

The first rule of dating is you never going into a relationship thinking you can change that person. I forgot that rule. And in the process of trying to change him I wound up changing myself. And it wasn't in the hair that thinned, the face that broke out or the blood that ran thick with caffeine. It was in my outlook of my priorities. It was in my heart. It was that feeling in my chest knowing I had done something good but my soul is tired.

After a few sparse, "Things are crazy and I'm sorry I haven't gotten back to you!" texts here and there I reached out to The Greek to tell him we were closing the shelters down and I saw a light at the end of the tunnel. And this time... he didn't respond. It took a while for my phone to go off with his name on the screen and the message was impersonal and generic. He was a nice enough person to text me back but I knew exactly what I had done. I had pushed him to the side to be with someone else. And when I was through with that someone else and I tried to circle back... he had moved on.

And rightfully so. I didn't hold his decision against him and I never will. The Greek and I were not meant to be (and part of me knew that on the first date) but I needed to learn that lesson and a few more as well. I needed to throw everything away and be broken down to see what exactly it was I was doing wrong and how I could be better. Not just a better date. But a better manager... sister... aunt... friend... and person all together.

I couldn't expect someone to wait for me while I tried to excel in my career but in the process was tried and tested on levels I never thought possible. It will take some time before I can put into words exactly what those 30 days with Harvey were like but until those words are written I can simply say that it was not for someone that was faint of heart. It was not for someone who didn't know how to stand up after being knocked down. And it was not for someone who can't find beauty even in the most horrific hour. I find irony in that the night that I met The Greek for dinner I was so nervous that the Dallas traffic would overwhelm me and I would find myself driving the wrong way down a one way street. Yet that's exactly what I did just a few days later- just not with a car... but with my life. And I was bound and determined not to make that mistake again.

So when the opportunity presented itself to go on a date with someone new for dinner one night I didn't pass up the chance for a new start. The same early arrival. The same baseball game on the screen. But a different pitcher. And different butterflies. And a very different, "Here we go." Because this time I knew what was on the line. This time I wasn't balancing the "what if" with the "what is." I was focusing only on the "here and now."

He sat across the table from me and we shared nachos and laughed about the insanely horrible first date happening over our shoulder (as if this wasn't our own first date we were on). We talked about what I did for a living and I listened intently about what he did for a living and about his family and his friends. And as he talked my second phone went off. I had put it on vibrate but on top of that wooden high top table the sound echoed. He looked and waited for me to answer it. I looked at the screen... hit the ignore button... and turned the phone face down. I wasn't choosing this time. I had made my choice by saying yes to dinner. And I still had more to hear about his two dogs and he hadn't even heard the beginning of my life as an aunt. And whatever that call was about... could wait.

After the plates had been cleared and we sat on the patio laughing a group sat down at the table next to us. We didn't pay any attention to them until one woman drunkenly and loudly declared, "You know what I really hate right now. The Red Cross..." And with that he looked at me and I looked at him and he read my mind. We stood up and left the restaurant together. 

I could have argued with her and debated whatever accusations she was making about Harvey. I could have put up a fight and defended what I knew to be true. Instead I put my business card on the table, smiled and walked away. I didn't have to choose. That night was about getting to know a really funny and good looking guy... and my past with another man... no matter who he was... wasn't invited to join. 

One Year: A Bridge and a Box

As the weekend of my "Birthday with a Purpose" draws to a close I am overwhelmed with the wide spectrum of emotions I experienced in just a couple of days. There were times I was laughing with Dallas Police Officers as they heckled one of their own and there was a moment at 10:02 am when I was physically holding up a female officer on the side of the road as she sobbed on my shoulder. There were jokes about my height and hesitation about my presence. But as I went Station to Station I was met with men and women who did their best to heal me while my sole purpose was to heal them. But that shouldn't surprise me because that's exactly what one officer did when I was at the Memorial last year.

In 105 degree temperatures she stood out there in front of the Dallas Police Headquarters in full uniform. And in my Red Cross vest I asked if she wanted a bottle of water. It was a simple gesture but one that never left my mind because of her smile. She was so sweet and so appreciative in a moment when I was supposed to be expressing my appreciation to her. And because of her smile she is the only officer I had my picture taken with at the Memorial. I held on to that picture and found comfort in it somehow. Two females serving their community. Both wearing vests. One incredibly brave and the other incredibly grateful. And this July 7th we were reunited. This time I didn't have water for the officer but a thank-you card. And I was able to explain to her who I was, what she meant to me and how I found strength in her smile. I took a piece of the pain from last year and I put a new smile on it.

To end the Birthday with a Purpose I decided it would be special to participate in a "Run for the Blue" 5K race. "Special" was one way to put it. It was 90 degrees at 6:45 in the morning. Not the slightest of a breeze was blowing. Clouds were nowhere to be found. And almost 3,000 people had shown up to run. I wore my special shirt. I presented the check for the Signal 15 Fund to an officer with the organization. I stood at attention for the National Anthem. I bowed my head for the prayer. And when the race began... I cried.

I cried. I cried as I ran past officers standing in front of their squad cars with lights flashing and clapping their hands to cheer us on. Tears streamed down my face as I let it all out: the fear, the heartbreak, the anxiety, the helplessness, the confusion and the anger. I cried as I thought back to July 7th and watched the images of that nightmare Downtown play over and over in my head. I cried at the anger I felt at the protesters and their heartless words for police officers trying to protect them. And I cried at the memory of the man I was going to marry telling me that he "just couldn't do it anymore" so that somehow in the midst of the chaos that night I became single. I ran harder. And I cried more.

Then we came to a bridge.

The race went up and over the bridge and then the course reversed and went back up and over the bridge on the other side. At every turn there were officers with their hand out to slap yours. Some were standing in full uniform in the unbelievable heat. They cheered us on as we ran a race dedicated to supporting them. It was cyclical appreciation at it's finest. At the bottom of the bridge there was an officer that I had seen at the Memorial last year. I remember him bending down to talk to a couple of kids who were upset because they thought there were more "bad guys" out there. And this officer was crouched down and assuring the kids that the policemen were there to keep them safe and he promised that all the bad guys would be kept away from them. I will never forget that conversation or the way in which he comforted those kids who hung onto their Dad.

And there at the bottom of the bridge, on a bicycle, was the officer I saw that evening cheering me on as I ascended what must be one of the only inclines in the city of Dallas. I alternated between jogging and walking and nearly falling over from heat as I made my way across the bridge. And I thought, as I crossed it and turned back around at the bottom to climb it again, of the symbolism on that bridge. I was crossing over the past and leaving the intense pain, the confusion, the disbelief and the heartbreak on the other side. The events of July 7th, 2016: where the lives of five brave men were tragically ended in Dallas and in a house outside of the city my future became a past. I crossed the bridge into the present day. I crossed the bridge from when the officer was comforting a scared child to when he was encouraging me to finish the race.

And I did finish. But waiting for me to run that last stretch to the finish line was my brother and together we crossed it. Just like always, the people that I love stepped up and stepped in to help me accomplish something I was positive I could do on my own. But it was better done with them by my side. 

That sentiment is what made today's gift so special. Just as I was adamant last year that my family come together to celebrate my birthday, I was beyond vocal that I wasn't celebrating mine this year. It was no secret. (If banners could have been flown overhead I would have done that too.) But there was a big secret being kept to which I was at the core of... without even knowing. My sister decided that she couldn't let July 7th go unacknowledged. And so she reached out to countless friends through social media and asked them to help create a "Box of Love" for me. In a message that she wrote to each of them she told them that she would like to collect letters, cards, stories, memories, pictures, etc. that will make me smile on a bad day. She collected all of these items from across the world and presented me with that box today. 

I could not have been more surprised nor humbled at the site of a beautiful box filled with letters and cards from childhood playmates, high school friends, family, Nashville loves, new Texas friends and even my unborn nephew. The box is huge and my heart is full. 

If I learned anything this past year it's that even though I try to be independent and headstrong I can do nothing without the support of loved ones. And those loved ones don't have to be right next door to me. They can be back home in Nashville... in California... on base in Japan... doing missionary work in Brazil... in a small town in Vermont... in the big city of New York... and down the road here in Texas. For the girl who didn't have a single person show up to her 12th birthday party it's hard to wrap my head around the dozens of letters and envelopes in that box. How did I meet all of these people and what did I do to deserve so much love and affection? 

A year ago my heart was broken by a man who told me that he had a broken wing. And despite all my attempts to fix his wing and love him through it... I failed. Recently someone said to me, "You've earned those wings you wear." And I thought to myself, "I don't want wings because they break and from what I've seen- they're irreparable."  But now I know that perhaps they don't always break. Maybe they just bend a little. And sometimes those wings get a little heavy too. That's when we need to turn to our loved ones and ask for help. That is: If you know how to. And I didn't know how to this past year. I didn't ask for help but every time I thought I was going to fall someone was there to pick me up. 

You gave me a spare bedroom to sleep in so I didn't feel alone.... But I never asked. 

You met me at a Memorial and then you found me 3 months later... But I never asked. 

You sent me care packages to help with tumor medicine side affects... But I never asked. 

You texted me funny pictures and quotes that made me smile... But I never asked. 

You loved me through it all... And I never even asked. 

Thank you for all the love, support, kindness, sweetness and strength you have given me this past year. I won't lie and say that it's been an easy one and I won't lie and try to say everything will be good going forward. But in crossing that bridge yesterday I found the freedom to move forward with a renewed faith and strength... and in receiving that box today I found the source of the love to get me there. 

A year ago I wrote how I felt I had fallen through a rabbit hole like Alice... and I couldn't have been more correct. So with that I say, "A very unmerry unbirthday to me" and here's to a birthday that will forever be celebrated with a Purpose. 

Blue Bloods and Birthdays...

In the chaos of life these days I don't think I realized just how close it was until I looked at my screen and saw "June 7, 2017." One month.

One month until the day I used to count down to with an excited smile growing up. 

One month until the day written on every legal document I own. 

One month until the day I wish I could remove from the calendar. 

One month until my birthday. 

One month until July 7th. 

We all sat around a big table at a restaurant eating chicken and chugging cold tea. Everyone that was important to me was seated in a circle. Parents. Siblings. A nephew. A friend. And a love. It was a sweltering Thursday night and for once no one was working. We were all gathered to celebrate the big day... my birthday. I don't know why I was more adamant that most years to get everyone together for one night with no excuses. When dinner was over we took a group photo. Eight adults smiling and one baby in a bow tie. A peaceful moment encapsulated in time. We walked to our cars. And we began the drive home. The sunset over the water tower was countless shades of pink and you could feel the heat on the passenger window. Just another Texas summer night. Then my phone went off.... His phone went off... and both continued to go off. I looked down, saw the message and told him to park the car and get into the house immediately. We needed the news because whatever texts we were receiving were obviously wrong. 

A shooting. 

A sniper. 

Dallas Police officers down. 

Active situation. 

The only access to television we had was a social media live stream of a local news station on a 70 inch television. There was no delay in the feed. The screen was so large it was like watching a movie in a theater. But the images on the screen were not a scene from a movie. It was real. It was the culmination of worst nightmares and biggest fears coming together and unfolding right in front of us. The phones would not stop sounding with alerts. I looked at my brother who had his hands on his head. I looked at my sister on the floor with a confused expression on her face. I clutched the hand of the man I loved and tears streamed down my face. And I looked back at the huge screen. And as I looked up I saw an officer fall to the ground. You didn't need narration to know what had happened. I gasped out loud. I heard my brother swear under his breath. And I felt the hand holding mine let go. I looked at his face after he let go and the color was gone. There was just a blank stare in his eyes. I was sitting on the floor in a room filled with police officers as they watched their brothers and sisters in blue gunned down in the streets of Dallas. 

Numbers scrolled across the screen. 3 officers shot. No. 7 officers shot. No. 12 officers possibly shot. I reached for his hand. I tried desperately to hold his hand. But he wouldn't take it. And I had no idea at that moment, as chaos and fear and disgust and helplessness took over, that he would never hold my hand again. 

Time stopped as the magnitude of what was unraveling in Dallas become more and more clear. And the reality that these men- the men that I love and desperately wanted to somehow protect- needed to put their uniforms on and head out into this world that I no longer understood. Nothing made sense. There were more questions than answers. There was more confusion than any clarity. The only thing I knew for certain was that the most important men in my life were police officers and they were walking out the door into a war zone. 

The hours blurred together and the messages on my phone continued to pour in. But one message caught me by surprise. It was from a friend, who like every year, was a day late in wishing me a "Happy Birthday." In the midst of "Are they ok?" and "Any updates?" messages was a lone message that just read, "Happy Birthday" on my phone screen. And at that moment it struck me that this massacre had happened on my birthday. And I made the decision that I would never celebrate that day again. 

Minutes felt like hours and hours felt like days. I was curled up in bed because the sadness and the fear and the confusion were somehow easier to physically handle if I was curled in a ball. I knew facts now though. I knew that 5 officers were dead and more than a half dozen injured. I knew that my loved ones were now working their shift with targets on their back wearing a vest that wasn't strong enough to protect them. And I knew I would never walk down the aisle with the man I loved because when he let go of my hand... I lost him. 

I didn't want to get out of bed. I didn't want to go anywhere or do anything. But I had received a message asking for help from the Red Cross. They needed me to volunteer outside the Dallas Police Department. A memorial had been set up and given the extreme heat we needed to hand out water. I pulled together whatever energy I had reserved inside of me and put my vest on. It wasn't the bullet proof kind but for some reason I felt safer with it on. I had never said "no" to the Red Cross before and I couldn't do it this time. So I got in my car and I drove.

I drove through streets barricaded with police tape and Texas Rangers standing guard. There were tarps on the ground and stone columns covered in bullet holes now colored orange. There were news vehicles as far as the eye could see and there were officers every where. I don't remember parking. I don't remember walking up to the building. But I remember seeing the flowers, balloons, police cruisers and teddy bears when I got there. And I remember getting down on my knees in front of this sea of blue and crying.

I looked around me and was overwhelmed at the outpouring of support for law enforcement officers. There were tears but there were also hugs and thank-you's. And out of the corner of my eye I saw a teenage girl. And from the look on her face it was obvious that she wasn't visiting the Dallas Police Department to pay her respects. She was a cop's daughter. I saw it in her eyes because the expression on her face was all too familiar for this kid cop herself. 

I knew if I did nothing else while at this memorial in that red vest that I needed to talk to that girl. So I reached deep within me to find whatever smile I could possibly have hidden inside and I walked up to this girl and introduced myself. Her name was Peyton. She was 16. And that man in uniform with the shield to my right... was her Dad.  I talked at length to this sweet girl about the benefits of being a "cop kid" and the downfalls. I told her about the immense pressure put on us and how quickly we have to grow up because there are only a handful of other kids that say goodbye to a parent as they go off to work and know the chance of welcoming them home is not a given. I got her to laugh when I told about the joys of dating when your Dad is a cop and how that immediately means you have about 20 other Dads interrogating your date. And I tried to help make sense, what little I could, of the nightmare she had just lived through. I realized the words I spoke to her were the words I desperately needed to hear myself. I noticed the entire time we talked though she would look over my shoulder at her Dad behind me as if to check that he was ok. And every time she looked over at him, I looked down at my phone... doing the same exact thing. 

Peyton's mom asked to take a photo of us because she thought it was a sweet encounter between two cop kids. I didn't feel like smiling but I gave it my best effort and posed for a photo with a teenage girl I knew I wouldn't see again. As I walked away from her I hoped I had made just a small difference in her ability to understand what had happened and prepared her for what's to come. This was the new normal now and things would never be the same when our loved ones put on that uniform and walked out that door. 

I spent the next week working the memorial and the funerals. I don't remember all the details but I remember finding strength in volunteering. In knowing that I could do something, no matter how small, to help offset the heartache and helplessness I felt. I couldn't protect my dad or brothers or the man I loved from harm while they were out doing their job. But I could do my part to help others. And as the summer dragged on and I adjusted to the new normal that the July 7th Dallas Police Shooting had created in my life, I found myself at crossroads. 

I had been presented with the opportunity to leave a museum position and work full time for the Red Cross... and I took it. I had drawn so much strength from wearing that red vest in the wake of tragedy and I wanted the opportunity to serve my community. My family are all first responders- generations of them. So I decided being a disaster responder would be my way of wearing the family crest. While they wore their vests... I would wear mine. And I would do exactly what I had done after the July 7th shooting: help people I knew I would never see again. 

So you can imagine my surprise when I received an email my third week of work from a woman who wanted to thank me. She had met me two months prior outside the Dallas Police Department when I approached her daughter Peyton. She wanted me to know that I had touched her daughter's heart and made a difference. She wanted to reintroduce herself as not only Peyton's mom but also a new employee of the Red Cross herself, Marni. And she wanted me to know that there was more to the story of Peyton that I didn't know: that July 7th was her 16th birthday and she was adamant about never celebrating it again. And she attached a photo to her email. 

Marni had no way of knowing that July 7th was my birthday. But she learned in my reply. She also learned of all the ways that Peyton and I were alike in more than just height, hair and Cop Dads. I told her that I too would never celebrate July 7th as a birthday again because it would never feel like the right thing to do. Second only to September 11th, our birthday was now the day of the deadliest attack on law enforcement in American history and it was our home that it took place in... and our loved ones that wore the uniform. 

But then we remembered that special thing about Cop Kids and Blue Bloods... they don't give up. No matter what. If the men and women we love are brave enough to do what they do every day by putting their life on the line to serve and protect then we must be brave enough to not only let them but support them. And there is power and strength in that realization. So Peyton and I will join together one month from today on July 7th. We will come together to have "A Birthday with a Purpose" and we will give the day back to our heroes in blue. A birthday "celebration": a celebration of heroism, remembrance, perseverance, appreciation and the promise to Never Forget. 

We may be but two brunette girls but our blood runs blue. And for that we are honored and proud. On July 7th we'll give our birthday back to law enforcement... and you're cordially invited to attend. All of you.